


In Between Arms, Somewhere

by ohfrecklefreckle



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Peterick, Smut, When your OTP can't keep their hands off one another, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 11:19:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19108600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohfrecklefreckle/pseuds/ohfrecklefreckle
Summary: ~The raw sense of desire he felt for his best friend was addictive and dangerous but once he had allowed himself the tiniest taste of it he hadn't been able to stop.~Explicit smut, some bad language, slightly cracky and somewhat fluffy and even some cute snarky but I'm not sorry in the slightest about any of those things :)Old school disclaimer: M/M RPF - you have been warned! If you don't like RPF then please don't read it. Barely registers on the angst scale. Enjoy!





	In Between Arms, Somewhere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OutfieldOutlaw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OutfieldOutlaw/gifts).



> This was written as a birthday present for my wonderful friend [OutfieldOutlaw ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OutfieldOutlaw/pseuds/OutfieldOutlaw) and she has kindly let me share it here too <3 
> 
> We have many late night discussions about the boys and in one of them it was suggested that the rush of being on stage must somehow get them fired up in all the best ways. Hence, this little fic was born.

Pete leaned over the crowd, screaming into the microphone as what felt like a thousand hands grabbed and clawed at his body. There was always one firmly clamped between his legs but he knew that was the one that kept him safe and preserved what was left of his limited dignity. It was his most powerful moment of any gig; the sheer wall of energy coming back at him out of the pit let alone the rest of the crowd was the best high he ever hit. Night after night he let himself go, his voice competing with Patrick's to pummel the distant arena walls whilst silently singing about a night that he would never forget and nobody else apart from him and Patrick would ever know the truth of.

For years he had tried and failed to get Patrick to join him at the barricade, such was his desire to share the moment. It was just like being back in the school gym halls and community centres of their youth. Being able to reach out and touch hands, make eye contact and just be part of something special in a crowd of twenty thousand people made the grind worth it. That was Pete's favourite part, bringing his music back to the people who had fought to the front to share in it with him. Whilst he had succeeded in getting Patrick to slap a few hands from the second stage he hadn't quite sold the 'getting molested and screamed at' as something Patrick needed in his life but he would continue to work on it.

As security dragged him out of the crowd he fought to hold on to a stranger's hand as long as he could, the grip grounding him as he caught his breath. Every night was as intense as it was both exhilarating and draining all at the same time. Being able to feel a hand holding his own, knowing that moment would stay imprinted for both of them was one of the most special parts of the end of their show.

After running half the length of the stage slapping dozens more hands Pete made it back on stage just as Andy slammed home the last of the drum beats. Joe was wailing away on his guitar and Patrick had already retreated to the pile of cool, clean towels and was rubbing his face until it dried out. He took a second to drink in the scene – his best friends in the world all together in one place and united in one more incredible moment. Even back in the day when things were breaking down he always loved the end of their shows. Then, as the tour dates were ticked off the list, his anxiety had grown for when they would be able to do it all again. Since their reunion he hadn't felt that type of anxiety at all. His band really was forever, together or not, performing or not.

He hopped up on the drum riser and threw his hand out to Andy who grabbed it and grinned at him. Joe followed shortly after and Patrick moved towards them, reaching in from his place on the stage. Hands piled on and on the count of three lifted away into a disorganised mess of high fives. It was the end of the show and time to get out of there.

One by one they waved to the crowd and slipped through the curtain, only Pete grabbed Patrick's hand and led him between the two curtains towards the side of the stage that was opposite to the one everyone else was headed for. Amongst the madness he managed to get them to the side without anybody noticing they were there, being dressed all in black a definite help. He was grateful that Patrick knew better than to ask any questions and just followed behind, not letting go of his hand for a second.

A few seconds later and Pete clocked a gap in the flow of stage hands and roadies who were heading out to dismantle the set and the gear and surged forward, dragging a stumbling Patrick behind him. He pushed the door in front of him open just far enough to get them both through it at the first attempt and then clicked it shut quietly, turning the lock on the back of it to make sure they wouldn't be disturbed.

“Pete, what the fuck are we doing in here?”

Patrick whispered despite sensing that nobody would ever hear them. That thought alone gave rise to a panic in his guts about what would happen if the door jammed or the arena suddenly caught fire, things that were impossibly possible in his mind.

“You know.”

“No, I don't know which is exactly why I'm asking you.”

It was a challenge to keep his tone level and not let the mild panic in his voice take it over altogether. His body was still thrumming with the usual post-show rush and being locked in a cramped cupboard in the pitch darkness was not necessarily his idea of a calming experience.

“We said we'd find a place. Right time, right place... remember?”

With the gentle reminder ringing in his ears Patrick did remember. He was glad that the darkness hid the blush rising up his cheeks.

“Pete, no. We can't. Not here. What if they find us?”

“Right now I don't care. I'll take you out and blow you on the stage. I've got to have you Patrick. I mean it.”

He could hear the need in Pete's voice and that spoke to something inside him that he fought every day to switch off. Patrick swallowed and then cleared his throat, trying to see more than just the vague outline of Pete in the dark. He jumped at first when fingers descended down his cheek but soon leaned into their touch.

“We haven't got long Pete, they'll come looking...”

“Yeah, I know.”

The flat of Pete's palms pressed firmly against his shoulders and pinned Patrick against the wall behind him. Soft lips met his, stifling any further argument he may have felt obliged to make against what they were about to do. Figuring there was no point trying to see through the inky darkness he closed his eyes and let himself go into the kiss, the urgency building at the same rate he felt every millilitre of blood in his body rushing south.

He felt Pete's hands relent and expected them to appear on his hips but he jumped when they appeared closer to his temples, the kiss pausing briefly while Pete carefully removed his glasses before planting a gentle kiss on each of his eyelids.

“Keep 'em closed, just like you used to, okay?”

It was pointless nodding in the dark but Patrick did it anyway, unable to speak at the thought of days gone by when this was their usual drill. He had struggled so much with what they did back then, his guilt tormenting him constantly at how he was being unfaithful to someone he claimed to love. In truth he didn't love her, he loved Pete, but there was always something stopping him from admitting that to himself, let alone saying it out loud.

Over the years he had gradually found the ability to open his eyes and drink in every detail. He knew the way Pete's lips curled as if they were his own, like he was staring into a mirror. He had watched Pete laid back on the bed pleasuring himself more times than he could ever dream of counting. The raw sense of desire he felt for his best friend was addictive and dangerous but once he had allowed himself the tiniest taste of it he hadn't been able to stop.

The fingers that tugged at the pocket of his denim jacket pushed aside any concerns about where his glasses had gone. Patrick continued to press his shoulders back hard against the airbrick wall, sure he would break the spell of what they were doing if he moved a muscle. Pete's hands reappeared at the button of his jeans and tugged at it, pulling the well washed denim open with ease. He tried not to care that he was hot and had a sheen of perspiration all over his body, that even his hips and thighs would be burning up. He could feel the damp of his t-shirt against the small of his back as the denim gaped away from it and slid down slightly.

“Now you, just like we used to.”

Pete knew his voice was shaking, the rush of nostalgia almost as heady as the surge of post-show adrenaline in his blood. His jeans were far tighter and as Patrick rubbed him through them he struggled not to come there and then. Familiar fingers traced the outline of the distorted fabric in a torturous fashion and automatically his hips pushed forward to try and meet them.

“Pete, you're so goddamn impatient...”

The smile he couldn't see beamed at him in the darkness but he knew it was there, he could hear it. He had seen Patrick's smile every day for nearly as many years of his life as he hadn't seen it. Even when they weren't together there were thousands of pictures he could flick through to find one that would break him into a million pieces over and over again or a stored memory to draw upon. One of Patrick curled up beside him with a contented smile, gazing at him across a cafe table with an angelic smile or maybe propped up over him with a devilish grin spread wide on his face.

“Only for you.”

His breath hitched as Patrick's hands made short work of his jeans and a warm hand pushed into his boxers, stretching the thin fine cotton as the familiar fingers found their destination. Nobody held him quite like Patrick did, fingers curled around tightly but his thumb rested on the increasingly slippery head of his cock, the pad of it agitating him in small circles which made him leak even faster.

Unable to wait any longer he returned the favour, only he undid the barely fastened buttons on the front of Patrick's trunks, so strained were they by the substantial shaft behind them. He wanted to pull them down and release Patrick completely, to admire him and feel every hard inch with his hands or mouth or more but that wasn't how it needed to work to get away with what they were doing.

Whether it was in the back of the van or in a truck stop bathroom they had soon realised that they had to cover their tracks to be able to keep it from everyone they knew and, most of all their management, that they were fucking almost constantly. Pete could get away with appearing with his underwear rammed in his hoodie pocket but Patrick wanted to be more discreet. His ability to lie on demand wasn't great and he blushed hard at the merest suggestion that he was doing anything on the down low. They needed a better plan and had hatched one as soon as the backstage glances started to get more accusing than either of them could cope with.

The only way they had managed to look less dishevelled and obvious was to dry hump or jerk each other off in their underwear, the resulting sticky mess easier to deal with than the stains and clean up job of anything more blatant. When they finally made it big it didn't matter what mess they were in, they always showered and changed at the arenas or back on the bus if they had a fancy one. Underwear would just go in the bin and the secret was safe. The problem with making it big was that chances to sneak away just weren't there. Meet and greets, encores, corporate handshaking – all of that had robbed them of their lust fuelled furtive moments in dark corners around the globe.

Over the years it hadn't taken a genius to figure out what the biggest unspoken secret in the band was. Eventually an awkward sit down discussion called by Joe and Andy had ended in a very nonplussed reaction from them both. Both of them had already figured it out and neither wanted to watch nor join in – much to Pete's surprise – but they were happy to play along and help to keep it under wraps. Management cottoned on not long after but were as discreet as they needed to be to ensure the media had no idea and the money kept coming in. All in all it had turned out as well as it could have. The wives and girlfriends were the only victims in their arrangement but it had been a case of damned if they did and damned if they didn't. It wasn't that either of them didn't love their significant other, there was just another who was even more significant to them.

Those years of freedom and almost everybody knowing had been glorious but every now and again Pete would get misty eyed over their youth and want to do something risky or daring. Mercifully Patrick would just go with it and secretly he was more than grateful for Pete's ability to sniff out a dark space, store cupboard, quiet corner or obscured fire escape for them to venture into.

Patrick felt Pete's hand encircle him and let a quiet groan escape his mouth.

“Does that mean you're good?”

“Mmmmm, what do you think...”

As Pete started to move his hand up and down Patrick mirrored it, stroke for stroke, exactly the same cadence and with no fancy tricks. It had the unique feeling of jerking himself off and yet it wasn't, it never was. It was someone he loved, someone he worshipped if he was honest, someone who wanted to take him back to a place in time when everything was new and exciting, when he first felt a guy's hand getting him hard and getting him off for the first time. His first taste of a boy's clumsy kisses, his first taste of his own salty release, definitely his first taste of someone else's. The first real rush of lust and need and desire he'd ever known and the way he had become dependent on it. Dependent on hits of Pete.

“You're still pretty good at this Pete, have you been practising without me?”

He couldn't help but try and make a joke, the feeling in his belly already starting to overheat him. There were too many memories and every one was as vividly arousing as the hand around him.

“Every day in the shower. Now shut the fuck up and kiss me.”

Patrick blinked his eyes open for a second and could just about make out the outline of Pete's hair. He moved his head away from the wall slowly, sure he would end up with an ear in his mouth if he wasn't careful. A bump of noses confirmed that wouldn't be the case but let him know that he was broadly in the right area. Tilting his head he found the already open mouth, covering it entirely with his own before the groan at the back of his throat could give them away. He closed his eyes again and let the sound go into Pete's body, a low growl following it at the end as their hands started to speed up.

He thrust himself hard through Pete's grip, greedy for more but making sure that he kept up the pace too. His tongue dominated their kiss rhythmically, his brain and body unable to do anything but follow the metronome that his fist had become. He groaned in time, breathed in time and wanted nothing more than to make Pete come in time so they wouldn't be interrupted before he got to feel that happening in his hand one more time.

When Pete's teeth dragged at his bottom lip it was hard not to explode but he had to hang on. More than anything he loved it when they came together. It was somehow more earth shattering that any amount of watching or fucking they had ever done. In a heartbeat he was in Pete's basement perched on the edge of a table with Pete staring intensely into his eyes, reading the basest of his needs straight out of his soul. Then he was in a high rise hotel room in Japan, their bodies pressed together in a one-way glass walled shower which contained and echoed every obscene noise his body offered it as they looked out over the twinkling city lights of Tokyo. Then without warning he was present, back in the dark cupboard, sure that he had only seconds left before he couldn't hold on any longer. In between single second long addictive kisses he tried to explain that he was close but the words had no intention of spilling from his lips.

“You... I'm... it's... oh, shit, Pete. Oh, _man_.”

“Uhh, like, _almost_. _Fuck_.”

One compliment Pete could always pay himself was staying power. Whether it was his or someone else's hand or mouth that was trying to get him off he could keep his own orgasm at bay. He had a competitive streak that only Patrick had ever been able to tame and that was without trying. If Patrick was the competition then he never want to win. The only way to win was in the unending flow of love, the broad smile, the warmed heart, the spent body panting on his expensive sheets and the hand that curled around his own time and again. What he preferred was the dead heat, the moment of uniquely obscene erotic togetherness that they had shared so many times.

Capturing Patrick's mouth one last time he felt the vibration of a guttural groan against his lips, the sound of which echoed through his body and fell in tune with the natural resonance of his own swell of pleasure. Two or three sharp and desperate wrist movements each later and he was losing it, spiralling down into the darkness that hid the beautifully broken expression on Patrick's face which he didn't need to see to know. He fought to contain the Munch-like stretch that contorted his own face, not wanting to lose the taste of Patrick on his tongue, sweet and thick as it was.

Coming down the other side of the peak was breathy, close and warm. Kiss after kiss interspersed with small satisfied noises and muttered _so good_ s. Pete consigned the feeling to memory as best he could, soaking himself in thoughts of simple times and simple joys, feeling and knowing that they were forever connected by more than just hands and mouths.

Extricating his sticky hand was his next job but the least of his worries and he made sure to wipe it as clean as possible on the ruined underwear around it on the way out. The loss of the warmth of Patrick's hand around him left a strangely empty feeling in more than just his trunks but Pete hastily sorted himself out and made sure that he didn't look too dishevelled, knowing that they had to make the dash to the dressing room as soon as the cupboard door was open.

Instinctively he wrapped his arms around Patrick's neck and held him close, drinking in the way the soft hair brushed his face and the heat of the damp skin that pressed against his cheek.

“Always so good. God, I love you.”

“Love you more.”

With one final hard squeeze Pete let go, reaching over to unlock the door and take a peek outside. It was eerily quiet in the corridor and he pulled the door wider to see who was around. The confusion in his voice was evident.

“Where _is_ everyone?”

“I have no idea. On stage? Still...”

Patrick tried to stick his head out to see what was going on but couldn't get his shoulders past Pete who had decided to steal yet another kiss while the opportunity presented itself. The rush of the risk of being caught was nothing new in some ways but still a spine tingling thrill at the same time. He didn't consider himself an adrenaline junkie of even the most basic kind but the hand that slid up over his t-shirt and settled over his heart made it beat a dozen times faster and he gasped as Pete's tongue plunged deeper and deeper into his mouth. For a second he was tempted to slam the door shut again and carry on, knowing that he would be hard again in no time if he let the kiss get to him.

A yell of 'Boxes 59 to 78 are on stage and need to be off in a half hour to the truck.' brought him crashing back down to earth and killed the twitch that had already started in his jeans. He brushed the hand away that had come to hover over his crotch, straightening his fedora as Pete grinned at him. He didn't want to be caught, not then and not ever, but the innocent joy and pure love he saw staring back at him made him sad that they had to hide at all.

As nonchalantly as possible they slipped back across the corridor and into the tangle of the main curtain, Pete navigating the way to the main route to their dressing room as Patrick finally managed to put his glasses back on. Finally they hit people and bustle, the usual cacophony of roadies, stage hands and lighting crew appearing like excited ants around a sugar lump as they started to dismantle the stage. They made it through largely undisturbed, just a few idle chats and a couple of pictures that both of them hoped wouldn't give away what they had just been up to.

\-----

Three days later and it was another gig in another town. Media calls done, radio shows complete and the fans were filing into the arena. Pete sat in their dressing room with his feet up on the couch and waited for the others to arrive. A quiet knock on the door came and Elliott stuck his head around the door.

“Hey man, come on in.”

“Can't stop Pete, got some pre-show shots to do with the MGK but I just wanted to give you this.”

He crossed the room and placed a large brown envelope in Pete's hand, sealed side down. On the front there was some writing that Pete couldn't decipher at first.

“Thanks man but what is-”

“Open it alone. Or with Patrick. Up to you. See you out there.”

In a not-unusual gesture Elliott kissed Pete on the top of the head before slinging his camera on his shoulder and heading back out of the door.

Pete took a moment to look around the room to check he was definitely alone and then turned the envelope round to read the writing. It was written graffiti style across the front and simply read 'fyeo'.

Unable to stop his face forming a frown Pete peeled it open and stuck his hand inside, pulling out the contents. In his hand sat a sheath of photographs, a sheet of paper with more writing on it and a memory stick selotaped to the bottom.

He read Elliott's handwriting well enough despite the haphazard way it spread across the page.

 

_P + P_

_Be more careful making beautiful wishes in the dark. Perfect together. I had to._

_All on the stick, deleted forever otherwise. Photo proofed kisses printed by me in private._

_Don't ever lose the love._

_E x_

 

Pete shuffled the note aside, picking up each photograph one by one. The voyeur in him was set aflame, seeing the way his body fitted against Patrick's, the way the doorway looked as if it wanted to frame what they were going to do without ever knowing what they had just done. Their lips met in a way that made them whole and somehow Elliott had captured that in the split seconds they would have been visible for. He wasn't usually the kind to be moved by pictures of himself – spending seventeen years with cameras almost permanently pointed at him had been desensitising – but the flush of pink in his cheeks and swell in his chest was almost too much when he stared at the image of perfect, all consuming love that stared back at him from the matte photo paper.

The one he spent the most time on was of them going into the cupboard. It was a simple shot; two figures captured from behind, Patrick's hand in his. It should have been stark in the contrast heavy black and white print but it was anything but. There was no leader or follower, no sense of him frantically dragging Patrick across the corridor before they were caught out. It looked serene in its lack of context. His eyes kept going back to their hands, the grip tight but tender, reflecting everything they had become to one another.

Carefully he slid everything back in the envelope and, after taking a second to compose himself, Pete moved across the room to his flight case full of DJ gear, digging everything out to be able to slide the envelope into the back of it. He locked it shut and spun the dials to ensure it would be safely concealed until later. He pushed all worries of who else might have seen them together from his mind. Maybe Elliott had followed them or more likely he had just stumbled across them that night. Pete found himself grateful that if anybody who didn't officially already know happened to catch them that it was Elliott.

Part of him wanted to show Patrick the pictures because they were a moment in time that they could never get back and a time when they were beyond the worry of the world catching them. Elliott's lens, much like his heart, was a sympathetic one. There would have been less than no chance of them appearing in their clinch on the front of National Enquirer even if Elliott had kept hold of every singe digital image. Part of him though wanted to protect his sometimes nervous lover from the thought that they had been caught in the act despite their best efforts.

If nothing else he had the duration of the show to think about what to do and how to approach it. Song after song he could lose himself in the deep notes of his bass, in Andy's cymbals crashing like the end of days, of Joe's ad libbed riffs and Patrick's purity. He would listen to every single syllable, every missed lyric, every five lung long held note and let it wash away every worry and every pain. At the back of his mind he already knew that after his DJ set he would take the pictures to Patrick, calm his fears and then smooth the waters on his knees at the side of their bed while one suite stood paid for but deserted. After so many years Pete knew all the best ways to make things right and intended on spending the early hours doing every single one of them.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the lyrics of 'My Heart Is The Worst Kind of Weapon' only taken out of context and re-purposed to sound a lot more cheerful than the intent of that song <3 Thanks for reading <3 All comments and kudos much appreciated :)


End file.
